Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XLIV

 If I may have it when it's dead   I will contented be; If just as soon as breath is out   It shall belong to me, 
 Until they lock it in the grave,   'T is bliss I cannot weigh, For though they lock thee in the grave,   Myself can hold the key. 
 Think of it, lover! I and thee   Permitted face to face to be; After a life, a death we'll say, -   For death was that, and this is thee.